


the gentleness that comes

by electrumqueen



Series: it's a framework problem [2]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Repression, sex as self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electrumqueen/pseuds/electrumqueen
Summary: "Get out," Johnny says. His mouth tastes like shit and his ass fucking hurts. "Two of my kids not enough for you? Tough luck, I'm out.""Johnny," LaRusso says.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: it's a framework problem [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981036
Comments: 20
Kudos: 164





	the gentleness that comes

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for 2.10, as you do. I am obsessed w this particular kind of misery. as always thank u e for Supportive Enabling & Danny Voice!

Johnny told the kid, _LaRusso fell asleep here. Wild, huh?_

The kid said, _maybe he's not such a jerk._

 _I don't know,_ Johnny said. _I wouldn't put money on it._

Now the kid is in the hospital - _your fucking fault_ \- and Johnny's kid - Johnny’s other kid - did it, and Johnny is about to go on the worst fucking bender of his entire sorry bender-filled life. He's in the corner store with his arms fully loaded, ready to cash out, and then he just - 

Walks out. 

_You're good at that, Dad._ That’s Robby, scared and self-sacrificing in his shitty kitchen; who the fuck knows where Robby is now? If Johnny was worth shit as a father, he’d know. If Johnny was worth shit as a person he'd be trying to find out. 

-

There's a bar. He never used to go, but sometimes he'd end up there. 

He never used to go. 

The guy is younger, but not by that much. Jacked, but from the gym, not functional training. Johnny doubts he's seen so much as a UFC match, and nobody who actually works for a living has time to get waxed that much. 

But Johnny knows what these guys look like - maybe they know what he looks like, who the fuck knows? He doesn't think about it - and it's easy to get in the car with him, easy to follow him into his modern apartment with enough sharp angles to cut you. Maybe he'll get axe murdered. You wish, Lawrence; if that was gonna happen it would have. 

The guy pushes his face into the pillow, tangles his hand in Johnny's hair. Fucks him like a porno. Nobody's that loud by accident. 

It fucking _hurts_. But it feels good. 

Or, 

It _feels._

-

LaRusso is waiting outside his apartment, sitting on the floor in his stupid slacks with his stupid arms folded across his stupid knees. He's dozing. Johnny would wonder how long he's been there, if he cared, which he doesn't. 

"Get out," Johnny says. His mouth tastes like shit and his ass fucking hurts. "Two of my kids not enough for you? Tough luck, I'm out."

"Johnny," LaRusso says. 

He drops his keys. Has to crouch down to fumble for them, fingers scraping across the concrete. Fuck, his elbow hurts. 

LaRusso's hand closes over his, wraps their joined fingers around the keys. "Let me walk you in."

Johnny wants to fight. Wants to take LaRusso out by that fucking knee. He should have pushed it when they fought, should have been King Cobra in his own living room. 

There's nothing left in him now. He's wrung out. Washed up. 

"Whatever, man. You make a habit of this, your wife's gonna think you got some fucked up priorities."

A low, rough laugh. "Oh, Johnny. That horse is halfway to Maine, by now."

Despite everything LaRusso is tender, careful. His hands on the small of Johnny's back, on his shoulders, guiding him through the insurmountable maze of the apartment, the garbage, the crap the kid left everywhere. Kids are like that. Both of them. 

"Can you shower? You'll feel better if you do."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Well, I am."

It takes a second: then Johnny gets it. "I'm the only one who fucked up worse than you did."

LaRusso shakes his head, but Johnny's no fucking idiot, and he is breathless with the realisation. 

"That was my kid. I let you have my kid, and -" If he could figure out where his hands are he'd bring em up, give LaRusso the sucker punch he can dish but not take. 

"Johnny." LaRusso's hand on his back is so warm. "Breathe."

"I need a fucking drink." 

"You need to sit _down_." 

"Go back to the hospital."

"I can't."

"Why the fuck not?" 

"You know why not." 

"Because it's your fault?" 

"Just as much as it is yours."

"Come on," LaRusso says. It's a calm voice, a dad voice. "You gotta sober up."

"Why? Who's it gonna help?" 

LaRusso looks his age, for once. His eyes are wrinkled around the edges. He looks like he hasn't slept in years. "Me," he says. "It's gonna help me."

-

When Robby was a kid, like really, really little, he used to love when Johnny would pick him up and fly him like a plane. Shan would laugh and kiss Johnny - she was pissed at him, but she’d forgiven him, the first time, and he’d forgiven her for all the other stupid shit that had pushed him to the edge, because it was just the two of them and their kid, and that meant something to both of them. They’d talked about it, when they were high, or when they were both blackout tired from Robby crying all night and Shan was starting to see things, Johnny sure he was floating - that neither of them had good parents, that Robby deserved better than them, deserved the best they could give him, more even. 

He was a cute kid. So fucking cute. Sweet little eyes, always ready for a hug, always wanting to be held by whoever was closest. Johnny had worried about that - how was he gonna be a fighter? The world was gonna roll right over him. But Shan had shrugged and said maybe he won’t have to be, he’ll be a looker instead. 

Johnny used to hold Robby above his head and make little zooming sounds and Robby would wave his chubby little arms and his chubby little feet and he’d say _wow look at you go, little man,_ and they’d go all around the room together.

Obviously that all went to shit.

-

Johnny’s entire body hurts and he’s so tired he could pass out, if LaRusso would _let the fuck go_ and leave him to the carpet, which is _his carpet,_ and _his friend._

“I’m not gonna do that, Johnny,” LaRusso says, with the patient voice of a fucking _dad_ or someone who had a dad who didn’t fucking _try to kill him_. But look where it got them: same place with their fucking kids in the hospital so maybe having a dad isn't all it's cracked up to be. 

“Fuck you,” Johnny says, trying to push him off.

That is, of course, when LaRusso turns the shower on.

“Fuck!” Johnny splutters and lurches wide awake. The water is _cold_ and he is _not_ \- 

“It’s for your own good,” LaRusso says, the absolute sadistic fuck. 

Johnny sways against the spray and has to reach out for the wall. "Jesus fucking christ." 

"He's not here," LaRusso says, dry, "but I'll take a message if you've got it." He's rolling up his fucking shirtsleeves. 

"What the fuck, man," Johnny says, but the water's warming up and his shirt's all the way soaked now so at least he's all one temperature. 

"Don't bitch, Lawrence," LaRusso says. "It clashes with your hair." Fucking Newark shit, popping right out on all the vowels. Johnny's never been to Newark. New York, when he was a kid and they were rich, that was something. Not fucking Newark, though. 

He stops thinking about geography real quick, though, because LaRusso's stepping out of his shoes and into the fucking shower, and he's got his hands on Johnny's hips and he's holding Johnny up. 

"The fuck!" But he's off balance, and the tub is slippery, so pulling away just pushes him back into LaRusso's arms. Fucking figures. 

LaRusso's surprisingly strong. He doesn't flinch holding Johnny up, even though he's soaked through now, just like Johnny. 

“I’m not,” Johnny says, leaning against the tile. “I’m not - whatever. Pansexual, or bisexual, or a fucking - whatever they call it these days - queer. I’m not any of those things. If I was I wouldn’t have a kid, would I?” 

“Johnny,” LaRusso says. Like he knows anything about what the kids think. Johnny would bet money he doesn't know agender from gnc and he would win. 

"Not that I'm great at having the kid, obviously. Either of them."

The world is spinning. Johnny shakes LaRusso off, finally, and sits down in the tub and watches the shower water run down the drain. The tile is fucking cold against his ass, so he starts taking his jeans off and gives up around the ankle mark. 

“You want a hand?” 

"No thanks," Johnny says, waving in LaRusso's general direction. "I've been through it once, no need to try again."

"Hey," LaRusso says, a fake kind of friendly, "I was drunk. That was not my best." He sits down across from Johnny, two grown ass men - men more than grown, men approaching the hump of middle age - sitting in a bathtub, like teenage girls on that show the kids are always trying to get him to watch, the one they said was about Archie and Betty and Veronica.

Johnny gives up on his jeans and tries for his shirt. That's a lot easier, even soaked through. 

LaRusso is staring at him. "You had your chance," Johnny says. "And you made it weird. Urinal rules, my eyes are up here."

"Jesus, Johnny," LaRusso is saying, "what the fuck happened to you?" 

Oh, yeah. That fucking guy. "You should see the other guy." 

"Did you _kill him_?" 

"No, man, what the hell. I thought you were taking care of me, you know, for your guilt."

"You look like-" LaRusso shakes his head. "Do you need to go to the fucking hospital?" 

"No way, man, my insurance sucks." He's self employed and owns a karate dojo: he pays through the nose for nothing. Well. He doesn't own it now. "I'm fine, it's just - it'll go away."

"Were you in a bar fight?" 

Now he's being deliberately fucking obtuse. Fucking LaRusso. "LaRusso. We deal with our shit in different ways, okay? You show up at my house to micromanage the shit out of me and pretend you're better than I am, and I get the shit kicked out of me. It's fine."

LaRusso reaches out, careful. His fingers skim along Johnny's ribs, delicate, light. 

Fucking still hurts, though. "Who did this?" 

"I promise, I deserved it."

"I believe you."

The thing is, it wasn't bad. It was fine. The guy was - it really was fine. 

The water is dripping into Johnny's eyes and he realises he said that out loud. Fuck it, who cares. 

"What guy," LaRusso says. Sharp, this time, insistent. "Johnny, _what guy_."

"What, you wanna buy him a drink?" Johnny rubs his hand over his face. "It was fine. It was good. I liked it." God, saying it out loud - feels like he's cracked open at the chest, like LaRusso's fingerprints are rubbing over his open heart. 

But the kid's eyes won't open and Robby's god knows where, so Johnny was already - wide open. 

"Christ," LaRusso says, soft. "All right."

"Fuck you, man. Not all of us live in big houses in the hills."

"Yeah, well, I'm here now, aren't I?" And then, gentle again, "can you please just let me help you?" 

"You're a real son of a bitch," Johnny says. "You know that, right?" But he leans back into the ceramic so LaRusso can yank his jeans off, and the water falls right into his face, and he sighs. 

-

The kid said, _it’s weird that he’d stay over._

They were sitting out front of the studio. Johnny had a Banquet and the kid had a coke. 

_He was wasted,_ Johnny said, marvelling at it. When they were kids LaRusso was a real piece of shit, always bouncing around at the top of his lungs. They were never in the same circles enough to get drunk together. Maybe Ali might have managed it, but like LaRusso said, she's in Denver. 

The kid shrugged. _I guess._ And then he grinned, that stupid bright smile like the world's good, like it's not out to grind you into dust. _Hey, maybe he's been thinking about you as long as you've been thinking about him._

-

LaRusso turns the water off. 

Johnny's still - fucked. Just sitting here in boxers, wet and tired. LaRusso washed his hair for him, kept the shampoo out of his eyes. Always with those gentle fucking hands. Like if he's careful now he can undo everything that came before, reverse each kick, punch, hit - _the kids -_ with each delicate touch. 

“I fucked up too,” LaRusso says, stretching his legs out along Johnny's. The slacks are probably ruined, Johnny thinks. “He was my responsibility and I left him.”

“You had to look out for your kid.” Johnny would do it in a second, or he’s already done it, and he picked Miguel. 

“Yeah,” LaRusso says. “But now we gotta fix it. I’m not gonna find him by myself, am I?”

"What?" 

LaRusso takes Johnny's chin in his hand. "Look at me," he says. "We made this mess. We can't fix much; we aren't doctors. But Robby needs us, and we're going to find him. All right?" 

Johnny's head hurts. His ass hurts, he's wet, he's miserable. LaRusso is the last person who should tell him anything at all. "All right," he says. "Let's do it."

"Okay," LaRusso says. "Now you're gonna have to let me help you up, because there is no way you're making it to bed on your own."

"No getting fresh, LaRusso," Johnny says. 

"Of course not," LaRusso says. 

Johnny lets himself be pulled up. It's kind of nice to not just be Johnny against gravity. Only a little, though. The rest of it's still shit. 

LaRusso goes through his drawers with the twitchy energy of someone who's distracting himself by being a control freak. Johnny can't point fingers, given how he spent his evening, so he just sits on the bed wrapped in the towel LaRusso put around his shoulders and waits. 

Maybe he's watching LaRusso's bony ass. Who cares? He's tired and he's old anyway, he can only go once a night and he's done it. 

"Here," LaRusso says, finally. He's wearing one of Johnny's shirts, the grey Zebra. The fit's loose; LaRusso's not as lean as he used to be, but Johnny's been broad through the chest since he was fifteen. "Come here."

Johnny doesn't move but he doubts LaRusso expected him to. He doesn't flinch when LaRusso comes around, unravels the towel gently, tells him, "arms," and smoothes soft fabric down and over; just lets him do it when he pulls down Johnny's boxers and replaces them with a clean, dry pair. 

He can't remember the last time anyone touched him like this. 

He doesn't want to. 

"Hey," LaRusso says, soft, like the moment of silence after the first good hit. "I can sleep on the couch."

Johnny closes his eyes. Shakes his head. 

"Okay," LaRusso says. 

Maybe this time it's Johnny who curls into the curve of LaRusso's arms. Maybe. It's nobody's fucking business. Certainly not his own. 


End file.
